


Get Well Soon

by grim_lupine



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Drunk Dialing, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years later and Mark gets drunk and apologizes. Sort of. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Well Soon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Get Well Soon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733645) by [grim_lupine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine), [Mofery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mofery/pseuds/Mofery)



-

\--

“I feel like this whole experience has taught me a valuable life lesson. Most likely one that would be found inside a Hallmark card, though personally I think that with the plenitude of online cards, Hallmark is a dying business, anyway,” is the first thing Mark says when Eduardo answers the phone. He’s highly pleased that he only slurred his words a little bit.

There’s a pause, during which Mark imagines all the way Eduardo is testing to make sure he’s not dreaming or hallucinating or something. He probably pinched himself. Eduardo likes the clichés. “…Mark,” Eduardo finally says, flat, not really surprised.

“Hi,” Mark says, which, he realizes, is what he probably should have led with. This ‘sometimes social niceties are a _good_ thing’ lesson is an ongoing process.

“Mark, why are you calling me?” Eduardo asks, sounding tired. Mark can picture the little wrinkle that’s there between his eyebrows with shocking clarity. “Wait, don’t answer that. You’re drunk and life hates me, of course you called me,” Eduardo continues, and strangely enough the bitterness in his voice gives Mark hope—because if he’s bitter that means some part of him still _cares_ , some part of him still thinks about what Mark did to them. Mark thinks about it a lot, mostly when he gets drunk and maudlin and realizes that all of his friends work for him and there’s no one who tells him to pull away from his computer and eat something other than noodles and energy drinks anymore. He’d wondered if Eduardo had maybe moved on. Of the two of them, Eduardo is infinitely better-adjusted, although most people would consider how long he stayed friends with Mark as evidence to the contrary; there is a very real possibility that Eduardo just doesn’t think about Mark anymore, doesn’t care what he does, will go back to bed after this phone call and sleep soundly through the night.

But the bitterness in his voice says otherwise.

“I can buy anything I want, now,” Mark tells him, shaping each word carefully so it comes out the way he wants it to past the curtain of alcohol. He speaks fast, words running into one another, because if this is _it_ , if this is his one chance to make Eduardo listen to him before he hangs up and never picks up an unknown call again, Mark wants to make sure he’s made his point and said what he needs to say. “I mean, literally _anything_. I—you know how I am with impulse control, my house is all filled with infomercial paraphernalia and things I found online, and I—I have this, like, this mixed drink maker thing, and it’s just sitting there because it turns out one doesn’t actually make all that many mixed drinks for oneself when one doesn’t have people to invite over, and I _keep_ buying things I don’t need because I can, and. And. I can’t buy the one thing I really need.”

Mark pauses, swallows. His mouth is dry, and his palms are sweating. Only the slightly-wavering breathing on the other end of the line tells him that Eduardo is still there. Still listening.

“I mean, I guess I _could_ pay people to be my friend, but I think I’m already doing that as a part of their salary, and it’s mostly unsatisfying. And really, it isn’t a general friend I’m looking for anyway, but more of a, a specific type. Like—you.” Mark thinks he might almost snap his phone in two with how tightly he’s holding it. “Which is, I suppose, still technically within the realm of possibility with the money I have, but paying someone to be _you_ is slightly more pathetic than I’m willing to be at this juncture. And, um, also ultimately unsatisfying. Not to mention the fact that I have recently come to the realization that I wanted more than friendship from you, and then that falls under the jurisdiction of needs only a prostitute could fill, which is something I suppose my board members would rather I didn’t get into. Although we do manage with Sean. Um.”

Mark decides to quit while he’s relatively ahead. He’s done, anyway. In one truly impressive fit of word-vomit, Mark has (albeit in a slightly more inebriated manner than he might have preferred) said everything he needs to say—

There’s a huff of incredulous laughter from Eduardo’s end, and Mark notes the slight tinge of hysteria in it with growing apprehension. “Only you, Mark. _Only_ you would manage to apologize without actually apologizing while simultaneously propositioning me. Congratulations, that takes quite some skill,” Eduardo says, sounding like he’s aiming for biting but hit shaky by mistake. “You know, why am I even surprised? I don’t think the words even belong to your vocabulary, you’d need to learn how to be an entirely different _person_ before you—”

—oh, right. That’s what he forgot.

“I’m sorry,” Mark says immediately. Eduardo stops mid- angry sentence like he walked into a wall. Mark says it again for good measure, because anything that works is worth repeating (except in code, but Mark has already learned through painful experience that trying to think of his relationship with Eduardo and things like Facebook and programming in the same terms ends up, well, failing): “I’m sorry, Wardo.”

There’s a dull sound on the other end, like maybe Eduardo just set a glass down, or punched the table. Or threw a dart at a picture of Mark’s face, Mark doesn’t know, the silence is making him decidedly uncomfortable, and apparently some of Sean’s paranoia is rubbing off on him. “Mark…” Eduardo says, and _this_ time—this time the sound of it makes Mark’s heart start beating faster, because he _knows_ that tone. It’s something familiar, back before lawsuits and betrayal, back before Facebook dropped the ‘The’; it’s a tone that Eduardo adopted a few weeks after they’d become friends, that sounds something like ‘wow, you’re an asshole, and yet, inexplicably, I still like you. Go figure.’

Eduardo has a very expressive voice.

“You are a completely ineffectual human being, you know that?” Eduardo says despairingly, and in case Mark was in danger of forgetting why Eduardo was his best friend (still is, actually, because three years and he hasn’t found anyone better), it’s things like this. Eduardo thinks something and says exactly that. It’s—refreshingly uncomplicated. Mark doesn’t know what to do with people who think one thing and say another and expect him to keep up with two levels of conversation, one explicit and the other implicit. He does badly enough when he’s just talking like a normal person.

“It’s been brought to my attention that the lesson that money can’t buy friends is something most normal people are already familiar with,” Mark admits, and Eduardo laughs, like he can’t help himself. Mark can’t help his own slight smile; he’s _missed_ Eduardo laughing at his jokes and his deadpan comments. No one else seems to find him as funny.

“I gave up on you being a normal person a long time ago,” Eduardo tells him. “And—you never cared about the money, anyway. It wasn’t that with you.”

That Eduardo _gets_ that, says it without a shred of doubt—Mark cradles his head in his right hand, tugs on his hair sharply. He’s mostly sober now. He’s not really sure whether that’s a good thing or not.

“I didn’t care about the money either,” Eduardo says, softer this time, voice a little rough; and Mark knows that, knew that then, and he’s aware of how much of an asshole it makes him.

“I’m—” he starts again, because what else can he say? But Eduardo interrupts him with a half-laughing, half-choked, “Don’t say it again, twice is enough. Any more and I might start looking for signs of the Apocalypse.”

Mark laughs, and pretends the sudden rush of relief isn’t making him a little shaky.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Eduardo says suddenly, and the self-assured authority in his voice is new. This, Mark knows for sure, _is_ a good thing. “You’re going to sleep, and in the morning, when you’re _sober_ , you call me again. And then—and then we’ll see what happens.”

“Wardo, I’m not—” Mark starts, because he’d been drunk, but only enough that he’d actually go through with calling Eduardo. He meant every word. Even if he regrets the embarrassing babbling about his drinks maker.

“I just need to be sure, Mark,” Eduardo says, and it’s gentle and yet firm, and achingly uncertain underneath it all. Mark’s chest twinges sharply.

“Okay,” he says simply. He’ll call Eduardo in the morning and say it again. He’ll say it as many times as it takes for Eduardo to believe him.

“Okay,” Eduardo repeats, then: “Good night, Mark.”

Mark listens for Eduardo’s quiet breathing, listens for the _beep_ of him hanging up, listens to the dial tone for a full minute before he hangs up and goes to bed, waiting for morning to come.

\--

-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Get Well Soon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075112) by [idellaphod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idellaphod/pseuds/idellaphod)




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